


Haunting for Dummies (and Geniuses)

by GoldenUsagi



Series: Most Ghosts Are Idiots verse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Gen, Ghosts, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:49:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenUsagi/pseuds/GoldenUsagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timestamp to Most Ghosts Are Idiots.  In which Sherlock watches programmes about hauntings, alternately mocking them and using them for inspiration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunting for Dummies (and Geniuses)

**Author's Note:**

> Entanglednow and I have decided that we will each try to write one fic a month where Sherlock is some sort of supernatural creature. Be sure to check out [her fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1544852) as well!
> 
> Beta'd by entanglednow and verdant_fire.

The telly was on something mindless when John came home. He didn’t give it much thought, as Sherlock seemed to watch mindless telly more often than one would expect him to. It wasn’t until John had made a cup of tea and sat down that he realised what Sherlock was actually watching.

He cleared his throat. “I thought you weren’t interested in other ghosts.”

“I’m not. As such,” Sherlock said. “But these accounts _are_ case studies, and it would be foolish to dismiss them—” a groan “—despite how they’re presented.”

John looked back at the screen, where a re-enactment was going on. A woman was in bed, clutching her child and screaming at the ceiling.

“I’ve already read all the books,” Sherlock continued, “and until I can get on the Internet, these programmes are my only source of new information.”

John sensed a question and a complaint in that sentence, and he reiterated a point he had already put his foot down on. “You are _not_ using my computer again. I had to replace the battery _and_ the hard drive after last time. If you want to figure out why ghosts are incompatible with technology, you’re going to have to ask your brother for some electronics to destroy.”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

John knew that pinpointing the electromagnetic interference of spirits was one of the things Sherlock wanted to figure out, but it was in no way something that John could afford to bankroll. If Sherlock’s experiments were going to end up breaking laptops and cameras, he was going to have to suffer the indignity of having Mycroft provide the materials. John personally didn’t see what the problem was, as _he_ would be the one who would have to ask Mycroft anyway, but Sherlock had sulked and played angry violin music the last time the subject had been broached.

Which was why they were watching crap telly right now, John supposed. He opened his laptop and settled in, only marginally paying attention to what was going on onscreen. His first real clue that he should be paying closer attention came when Sherlock thoughtfully said:

“I wonder if I could push you down a flight of stairs.”

“Um, _no_.”

“Purely hypothetical speculation, John.”

“It had better be,” John muttered, glaring in Sherlock’s general direction.

He didn’t _actually_ think Sherlock would push him down the stairs, but he made a mental note to hold on to the banister more securely for the next week or so.

“What I don’t understand,” Sherlock went on, “is why anyone would remain in a place that they feel is malevolent toward them. Every member of this family believes there’s something in the house out to get them, yet they stay. Why?”

John turned his attention back to the telly, watching the interview play out for a few moments. “Nowhere to go?” he guessed. “Money? Buying a house is a lot different than renting a flat.”

“Mm.” Then Sherlock asked, “Have you ever noticed cold spots?”

“Not particularly.”

“I wonder if they’re an unintended effect of a ghost becoming agitated. If I was always aware and rational, perhaps they never occurred. Still, it should be fairly easy to replicate. Heat and cold are only molecules vibrating at different rates, after all.”

The programme ended with the family finally leaving the house. What came on next was another haunting show, though Sherlock was obviously finding this case less interesting.

“That’s patently ridiculous,” he grumbled.

“Mm-hmm,” John absently agreed.

“They’re blaming the ghost for a death, when the man simply had a heart attack.”

“Possibly from being scared to death?”

“No concrete evidence. Look at him! He clearly had an undiagnosed heart condition. And I don’t even know where to start with the fact that they think a _demon_ did it.”

John looked up again. “You don’t think that’s a thing, then? Demons?”

Sherlock paused. “I suppose that I, as a ghost, shouldn’t deny impossibilities, but so far I have no evidence that entities on a cosmic scale of good and evil exist. I have no evidence that a cosmic scale of good and evil exists. When Mycroft had people here, there were priests of various faiths, and I felt no effects from their blessing or banishing me. The only power they had was knowledge of the other side. Had I been a confused, mindless ghost, doubtless they would have been able to tell me how to move on. Of course, I already knew and simply didn’t wish to. Indeed, these stories lend support to the hypothesis that humans have no power over the supernatural, that there are no correct words or actions that will achieve an intended result. Several of these residences remain haunted, no matter what measures have been taken.”

“Uh-huh,” John said slowly. Then, “How long have you been watching this?”

“It’s a marathon,” Sherlock said.

“Of course it is.”

The rest of the evening was spent listening to Sherlock mock the paranormal investigators when he thought they did something particularly idiotic, and express interest in reproducing a type of activity.

John felt a quiet sense of foreboding.

He went to bed without incident, leaving Sherlock to his programme and hoping to at least sleep though the night.

When John woke up later to his blankets slowly sliding off him, he rolled over and pulled them back up. When they were then yanked off the bed, he sat up and demanded: “ _What_ is your problem?”

“This seems to be a favourite activity of malicious spirits,” Sherlock said, disdain colouring his voice. “Though I can’t fathom why.”

John crawled to the end of the bed and snatched his covers back.

“I suppose it has something to do with fear,” Sherlock mused, “and the sense of vulnerability one might have upon awakening. Certainly upon awakening and feeling as though you’re not alone in the room.”

“All I feel is _cold_ ,” John snapped. “Do you actually need me for this?”

“I think better when I talk aloud,” Sherlock said, like he hadn’t just woken John up so he could conduct an intellectual exercise. “And the marathon ended.”

“Wonderful.” John lay back down, pointedly tucking the blanket around himself. He closed his eyes.

“Do you ever feel like you’re being watched?”

“Constantly,” John said, deadpan.

“No, in the beginning. Did you feel like someone was watching you?”

John thought about it. “Not really,” he said eventually. “I mean, once I realised you were here, it felt like someone was around, but I never felt like you were just _watching_ me.”

“Mm. Though I did, you know. Watch you.”

John sighed. “Of course you did.”

“I suppose the feeling of not being alone whilst one is alone would be enough to make most people feel uncomfortable, whether the spirit was particularly focused on them or not.”

There was an extended silence.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I need to _sleep_. You need to _leave_. I don’t care whether you’re dead or alive, but hovering at the foot of my bed is not on. We can talk about this in the morning.”

There was no response, but a moment later John heard muted violin music from the living room.

\-----

When John woke up the next morning, he had barely taken a step out of bed before something pushed him hard enough to knock him off his feet. John bounced off the mattress before he righted himself.

He cast an annoyed glance around the room. “ _Sher_ lock.”

“You told me not to push you down the stairs,” came Sherlock’s voice. “As if I would have anyway. Far too many variables to ensure a safe landing.”

John stood, only to have a shove to his shoulders push him off balance again.

“Sherlock!” John said. “Enough!”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock was positively giddy. “Interesting. I _can_ affect living matter.”

“You never tried that before?” John got to his feet. “When you were terrorising people?”

“Oh, I tried. Nothing happened. But in the beginning, it was very difficult to affect anything physical, even small objects. Obviously my abilities have increased over time. Or perhaps the potential was always there but practise has allowed access to it. What did it feel like?”

“Like someone pushing me.”

“Details, John.”

John considered. He’d helped with enough of Sherlock’s experiments that he was familiar with the sort of things Sherlock would want to know. “Like an actual physical person pushing me. Two points of contact, roughly palm-sized—nothing out of the ordinary about it, except for the fact that I’m the only one in the room.”

“That’s consistent with the accounts of victims. Excellent. Being grabbed or pushed seems to be a common experience with more violent hauntings.”

“Again, I thought you weren’t interested in other ghosts.”

“I’m not. What I _am_ interested in is anything they can supposedly do.”

John snickered, suddenly understanding. “Because if _they_ can do it, with all their limits, then surely _you_ should be able to do it.”

Sherlock huffed, which told John he’d hit pretty near the mark.

“So what does it feel like for you?” John asked. “Touching someone?”

“Like nothing,” Sherlock said easily. “It’s an… exertion of force, a concentration to have my will done. Your falling is merely the result. No different than throwing a chair into a wall.”

“Thanks.” 

“It’s also incredibly draining, like any large demonstration, and requires either extreme concentration or high emotional agitation.”

John grinned. “And which was this?”

“Which do you think?” Sherlock said, scornful.

“Just making sure you don’t have it in for me.”

He almost mentioned that Sherlock had touched him one other time, on the pavement outside Baker Street after he’d been hit by the car. But John had been half dead himself at that point, so the usual way things worked probably didn’t apply.

“I need breakfast,” he said aloud.

Sherlock trailed after him. “How would you feel about spending a night in a haunted house?”

“I already live in a haunted house.” 

“It would be useful to have a firsthand account I can rely on as being completely unembellished.”

John put the kettle on. “I don’t want to go somewhere and… be psychic,” he said. “I don’t really think of myself _as_ psychic, even though I know that I am now. I’m not interested in testing it. I certainly don’t want to go someplace where there’s supposedly a demon that’s going to push me down stairs and attack me while I sleep.”

“Oh, fine,” Sherlock said in a voice that suggested that John ruined all his fun. “Then ring Mycroft, I suppose. I need to be experimenting on _something_.”

“As long as it’s not me,” John muttered. He started to get things out to make breakfast.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

John’s mobile slid across the table in his direction.

“You’ll be wanting me to ring him _now_ , I suppose?”

“It would be preferable.”

John moved to pick up the phone. “So what are we after?” He brought up Mycroft’s number, ready to hit it.

“Four or five laptops, as well as recording equipment to capture EVP. Oh, and tell him I know he’s gained three pounds.”

John put the phone to his ear as it started to ring. “No.”

The lights flickered.

“Don’t be stroppy.”

Mycroft answered on the next ring. “John, what a surprise. Tell me, how _is_ my brother?”

The telly came on in the next room, loud. 

John smirked to himself. “The same as ever.”


End file.
